Exhibition

“You ready, kiddo?”

Mickayla looked up at her dad, his hand poised to open the door. She was just sorting through her backpack that was laid haphazardly on their leather couch, trying to find the notebook she had stuffed in earlier.

“Yeah, just give me a second.” Mickayla shoved her hand deeper. “Aha! Here it is!” She pulled out her worn, leather journal with a sheepish smile. “What? You never know, I might meet Betye Saar, and I have to be prepared.”

The circular glasses that engulfed his warm, almond eyes traveled down his angular nose as he observed his daughter. “Doubtful, but I love the optimism.” The screen door slapped behind him, expecting Mickayla to follow.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit!” Mickayla snapped as she chased after her father, nearly tripping over her brother’s plastic toy truck idling by the cement driveway. She climbed into the passenger side of their sky-blue Honda.  “Pftt, it’s hot,” Mickayla complained as she turned up the cool air. Buckling her seatbelt, Mickayla watched carefully as her dad backed out of the driveway and avoided hitting her mother’s poorly parked car. “Have you heard from mom yet?” Mickayla asked, fiddling with the lock button. Up, down, up, down.

“Not since she left two nights ago. But you know, she’s always busy on her business trips.”

“Yeah… I just can’t help but feel this time is different,” she mumbled.

“She’ll be back, and then you two can talk.” He reached over and squeezed her hand, flashing a reassuring smile. “Let me hear those questions.”

He’s trying to distract me. Mickayla flipped to the most creased page in her journal, concentrating on the over-thought vowels and consonants that flowed from the page.

When they arrived at London’s National Gallery, the parking lot was already packed, and Mickayla’s dad made a beeline for his office. “Have fun, kiddo.”

 This meant Mickayla was left to her own devices. No one could judge her awe-struck staring at the tapestries, statues, and paintings that adorned the impeccably clean white walls of the gallery. Mickayla gave a leering snort as she opened the expansive doors. Because these snobs are doing the same thing.

The security guard, Richard, waved to Mickayla as she entered the commune area. Guests milled about, slowly trickling into the exhibit that was ahead of them. “Hello, little miss.” Richard, a beefy man with a receding hairline, cracked a smile even though his stance was rigid and authoritative. He had known Mickayla since she was little; her father had often hefted her on his shoulders so she could stare at the exhibition’s artifacts. “Excited?”

“Every time,” Mickayla said through a deep breath. Her peripheral vision caught a swirl of blue. “See you at the end,” she cast over her shoulder as she advanced toward the one painting she had been antsy all day to see. “Wow,” Mickayla whispered as she stared at Van Gough’s A Starry Night. How could she be so aware of every muscle in her body, every puff of air that escaped her lips? The outer world melted; the cluster of visitors around her evaporated into nothingness. Pure bliss.

When she was satisfied, Mickayla moved on to a Greek gecko statue, carefully reading the fine print beside it. The curves are exquisite, and the museum did well with the supple lighting. It emphasizes the statue's feminine features.

 Mickayla tactfully honed her attention to the art; she didn’t want to bump into people and have to hold a twenty-minute conversation.

“Mickayla.”

Mickayla whirled around, expecting her father to be standing behind her. But it was nobody, not even a stranger playing a prank.

“Mickayla.”

“Hello?” Mickayla said hesitantly, immediately blushing when she caught the stare of a confused middle-aged woman. “I’m sorry,” Mickayla mumbled as the woman drifted by.

“Mickayla, here.”

Mickayla was almost certain it was her mother’s voice. But how? Her mother was halfway across the world.

“Over here, Kayla.”

Mickayla’s gaze traveled to the far-left corner. A separate hallway, somewhat set aside from the other connected rooms, beckoned with an ominous persistence. She took one step, then another, till she saw through the dim corridor a boxy-like room hung with rich tapestries and paintings. It was oddly quiet and spacious, with a singular oak bench screwed onto the polished wooden floors.

What is this place?

The first oil painting was of a man with sun-blazed hair, adorned with a yellow robe so bright it seemed to bleed through the ink. Mickayla had to look away after a minute. She searched the wall for some sort of inscription but soon gave up when nothing appeared. The next few paintings were of battle scenes, dotted fairy-like landscapes, and portraits of fierce people heaped in fluid cloth. Her eye caught a statue opposite the room, a long willowy woman with a billowing marble gown.

And then her heart stopped. Placed to the right of the statue was another decent-sized painting. It was her mom, running across a vibrant forest with a tarnished aluminum scepter. The top of the scepter–an orange orb–shone as bright as the sun-man in the previous painting, casting brilliant shards of light.

“Mom?” Mickayla walked to the painting, reaching out to touch the flora. When she felt it, however, she gasped. Why was it still wet? Mickayla wiped it on her black slacks, wincing when the green paint smeared.

I have to get out of here. Mickayla swiveled her head, ready to shout to call someone, but the hallway she entered was no longer a hallway. It was a shadow on the wall. “Someone help me!” Mickayla cried, even though she knew she was alone in this rectangular exhibition. Mickayla strode across the room, peeping behind the statue. Maybe a hidden door?

When Mickayla had pressed and put her ear to the wall, hoping for a hollow echo or distant murmurs, she sighed in defeat and looked back at her mom's painting.

Again, her eyes flew open. Now, her mom faced a man with cargo pants and a sweat-stained gray shirt. His eyes were a sickly yellow; slanted downwards like his widow's peak. Dark veins spread from the tip of his mouth to the corners of his face, jumping out amongst his pale flesh. His fingertips, which were obsidian dark claws, reached up to grab an approaching spear.

Mickayla shuddered, shifting perspective to her mother’s face. It was determined and calm; her hand reached for the dagger stuck in her back pocket. The scepter she had handed to someone else, but the hand that grasped it was too close to the frame of the painting to reveal their identity.

“She’s in trouble,” Mickayla whispered. She whipped her head around and advanced to the shadowy spot where she had first entered. Balling her fists, new determination took hold. If she could find a way out, she would have time to warn her father. Or perhaps make sure her mother was safe.

“You’re too late.”

“Come out, whoever you are!” Mickayla shouted, observing the room. She had grown tired of this taunting voice. She was sure she was growing mad. Her eyes caught movement. Did the statue take a step? Mickayla closed her eyes, then opened them. No. But something is different.

“You’re a foolish girl if you think there’s hope for your Mother.”

Mickayla shrunk back into the wall. The marble woman’s authoritative stance did not change but her mouth was slightly parted, as if she were the one talking.

“You were the one calling to me,” Mickayla said, half expecting the statue to tilt its head. When its porous body remained rooted to the floor, Mickayla shook her head. “This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a statue.” She turned her attention to the wall, tapping on it. “Come on. There has to be something on the other side.”

“You were right to be worried.”

Mickayla froze. She pushed her heels back against the wall, an uncomfortable feeling welling up as she remembered the last conversation she had with her mother.

“Do you think she truly forgives you?”

“My mother knows what I said meant nothing,” Mickayla bleated, although she wasn’t sure. The marble statue, although mute and un-animated, seemed to be staring into Mickayla’s soul.

“You told her that she didn’t deserve to be called a Mother.”

Mickayla slid down the wall, the gold-studded buttons scratching the painted exterior. She bowed her head and rubbed her eyes. I’m in a nightmare. This doesn’t exist. This is some sort of dream …

“You told her you would be just fine without her.”

Mickayla covered her eyes, trying to block out the searing voice in her mind.

“Do you remember your exact words?”

Mickayla knew them well enough, but she couldn’t utter them out loud.

“I remember. You said you wish she was dead. Well, look at the painting now Kayla.”

Mikayla looked up, transfixed on her mother’s grave, ashen face. She had never seen that sort of pain; never felt the grip that her mother’s strong hands had on the spear protruding through her abdomen. “MOM!” Mickayla cried, springing up from her fetal position. Was it possible to taste the blood? To smell it?

The electricity crackled, and the lights grew dimmer. An intercom cut into the grievous silence: “Attention, please. Attention, the museum will be closing momentarily. Thank you.”

Mickayla resorted to heavy pounding on the wall; hoping that those on the other side would hear the desperate pleas of a teenager. Just don’t look at the painting. It’s not real. It’s not real.

The canned ceiling lights suddenly turned off. “No, no no!” Mickayla cried, resting the top of her head against the wall. She wrapped her arms around herself, blinking into the inky darkness.

 “Now it’s just you and me,” the voice crooned.

“MICKAYLA!”

Mickayla smacked her head against the wall when she heard her father's faint, yet urgent voice.

“DAD!” Mickayla shrieked, clawing at the wall. Even through a shower of aggravated assaults, Mickayla herself didn’t hear the echoes of her fist. Rather, it was a dull thud. Her father’s voice grew distant as he moved farther away.

“DAD! I’M IN HERE,” Mickayla cried. She howled till her throat was raw. He can’t hear me. No one can. Mickayla’s hand trailed down the wall till it stopped at her thighs. She was trapped.

“Don’t be discouraged. It will all be over in the morning.”

“Mom?” Mickayla sounded; did she dare believe it was her mother’s voice in his hollow room? If she squinted, Mickayla could make out the frame of her mother’s deathly scene. How I wish I could see her step out of the thick globs of paint and pastels. Mickayla smiled dreamily, a sudden weariness descending. Tell me it’s alright, Mother. Tell me the morning comes with new promises.

She was nearly asleep when the unconscious thought pervaded her brain: What if my Mother can’t come back? What if she’s truly dying somewhere, alone, with the belief that her only daughter detests her?

Mickayla shifted, the silence driving an inner force of sorrow. The darkness was the inescapable tension to her frustration. I’m both oblivious and innately aware of my circumstances. She brought her knees to her chest and focused on her mother’s painting. I will keep looking for clues, Mother. Till this nightmare ends.